


just like a folk song

by summersnowz



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff, House Stark Family Feels (ASoIaF), Hurt/Comfort, Magic, One Shot, Retrospective, is it ? kind of yeah, just jon’s brooding made me put them tags in, more magic than usual, thats a tag ? cool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:40:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29336172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summersnowz/pseuds/summersnowz
Summary: arya and gendry in the eyes of the remaining starks
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters
Comments: 30
Kudos: 123





	just like a folk song

**Author's Note:**

> [ tumblr ](https://summersnowz.tumblr.com/)

i 

Sansas sister is a stranger to her.

It isn’t that she doesn’t recognise her - the opposite, actually. Sansa could pick Arya out with her eyes closed, her little sister with a long face and just _something_ that teaters on the edges of your mind. She looks exactly like their father, albeit with softer features, and higher cheekbones; their mothers influence, it seems. The whispers of _Lyanna_ follow her in smoke, though Sansa reckons that Arya is far more beautiful than their late-aunt - her wildness let run free, her magic untamed.

No, that isn’t the problem.

The problem lies in this; Sansa doesn’t know who her sister is anymore.

It’s to be expected, obviously. They had lost so many years to war and liars and games and they had never been particularly close in the before that it’s not a shock to be greeted with the face of her sister, but the manners of someone else. Sansa wagers that her suppression may be a factor; her magic is chained and shackled, beaten down and barely there - clinging to the fringes of her soul whilst Aryas runs free in the wind, touching the skin of everyone she meets in a gentle hello.

It hurts her, to be honest. The fact that she doesn’t know who her baby sister is, that Arya has changed and shaped and moulded herself to become someone so unrecognisable - yet still at the very core, herself. It hurts her that Arya was able to run free all those years, her magic at her fingertips. It makes her skin prickle, the green waves of envy rolling through her.

But in it all, Sansa finds solace in the things that do not change.

Winterfell has been chained and shackled, beaten down and burnt yet it stands tall and proud. It wears the scars of its battle with dignity, the stone walls ruined but not broken. Sansa finds comfort in running her hands across the bricks, steady in the knowledge that her ancestors hands have once done the same - 

_The Starks will endure._

Many things change, and many things stay the same. 

Her sister lingers by the smithy, and even if Sansa had not caught her loitering in the doorway she would have known. Her magic may be subdued, a pity to what it once was but her sister is her sister, and Sansa knows the familiar signature that clings to the forge. 

It doesn’t take her long to figure it out, her sister is her sister and a stranger all in one but Sansa has an embroiderers eye, a mind for small details. The new blacksmith is a tall man, but he is broad too with muscles that coil underneath his skin. Sansa would admit that he is handsome, a strong jaw, hair as black as coal and blue eyes, but it is marred by the surliness ever present on his features. 

He was there when Arya and Jon and Rickon took back their home; Sansa had heard that storm clouds rolled above them when he lifted his hammer with a cry, that the rain had given her family the advantage they needed - how, Sansa didn’t know - and that they won with the storm on their side. 

Sansa arrived when she heard the news, shaking Littlefinger from her life like one would a cloak from their shoulders. 

_(The relief at his death was palpable, and for the first time in years Sansa felt the touch of her magic. So close to her grasp, yet she could not close her fist around it._

_It slipped away, and she was left with a hollow relief.)_

She heard the whispers, trailing from the forge like soot footprints in the snow. _Robert reborn,_ the older ones murmur, the ones with lines on their face and frail hands. The elder woman she weaves with mutters of oaths and promises, fulfilled by ash stained glances. 

Sansa does not like that thought, her sister is her sister and the smith is the smith. She does like, though, that Aryas smiles come easier when she is with him, her magic erupts from her fingertips with a blush. Her sister looked as if she may run away when it happened, but Sansa saw from her perch the way the smith took her little sisters hands in his, and kissed the pads of her fingertips with such devotion.

And so Sansas sister may be a stranger to her, yes, but she is still her sister. Her little sister whose magic is tangible in the air, and who loves the blacksmith with a fierce, unwavering dedication. Sansa may not like it too much, for her sister who is her sister who is a stranger is still a lady but she will hold her tongue, and trail her hands across the ruined stone, feeling the remnants of Aryas magic in the forge.

ii 

Jon pondered often what it is that kept him human.

There was a constant ice within him, cold and hardened under the skin. Sometimes, he would lie awake at night and shake with a cold desperation when he felt it move. Sometimes, he would feel it crawl within him, and his eyes would grow blue and sharp as he shook the agonies of the dead from his mind. Sometimes, Jon finds himself wishing he were never born.

Oaths and promises.

Promises and oaths.

_(Promise me, Ned, promise me you’ll look after him. His name is Jaehaerys Targaryen, my son, promise me Ned. Keep him safe._

_Promise me.)_

He knows magic, more intimately than some may think. It’s infused in his very bones, and now, makes up his entire being. He wonders if that is what keeps him human, his ability to feel, to experience, to _know_ others magic when they are using it. Jon can feel the irony, weak touch of Sansas, the feral warmth of Rickons. Brans feels like home, more so than anyone elses.

Aryas is everywhere.

It makes sense, he thinks, Arya does not do anything by halves. She gives everything or she gives nothing; the years may have changed his sister, but that will stay the same. Aryas is an all-encompassing magic - he has felt stronger, but nothing so passionate. His little sister lives fiercely, the she-wolf of Winterfell.

_(Tell him I love him, Ned, promise me. Promise me he’ll know I love him, my son, my son, my son. Promise me, Ned.)_

And so, when Jon met Gendry, he felt a sort of pity for the man. Gendry is grumpy, and surly, and angry. That was what Jon first felt - anger.

They got on massively. 

( _There was something there, when Jon first met Gendry. A foreboding feeling, the feeling when you spot a storm rolling in and you’re stranded in the forest. He reached out tentatively, and magic responded.)_

Jon also, contrary to popular belief, is not an idiot. Bastards observe, learn to wait and listen and watch, learn to hold their tongue, learn to figure out who will be kind and who will be cruel. Even now, he finds those skills helpful, and his eyes will skim a room twice over before he begins to speak.

_(He’s the heir to the iron throne. Promise me you’ll protect him.)_

He watched as Gendry would forge day and night for his little sister, presenting her with daggers and swords and staffs. He watched as Gendrys eyes would soften around her, becoming more like the pools in the Godswood than the rough seas of Eastwatch. He watched as Arya walked, and Gendry followed.

And Jon pitied him, for a while.

How sad it was, he thought, that Gendry loved Arya more than she loved him. Arya would say jump, and Gendry would ask how high. Arya would mention a dagger she liked, and it would appear in her hands the next day. It seemed unfair, to Jon, and selfish, in a way. 

Then, it was the Battle for Winterfell. And Jon realised that maybe he needed to watch closer, because Arya does not do anything by halves. 

Gendry fell, and it happened so quick that Jon didn’t even notice when the mans hammer had fallen out of his hand with blood pooling from his stomach, only when Aryas scream pierced the air. He felt it, echoing throughout him as the storm ceased, he felt it before he heard it, before he _saw_ it. 

Arya decimated half of the Boltons army, her magic - violent and angry and feverish - tearing men limb from limb, leaving nothing but piles of blood and bones and skin in her wake. He remembered seeing her cradling Gendrys head in her lap, whispering softly with tears streaking down her face and wondering how he could even have thought for a moment she didn’t love him as he did her. 

In that moment, Jon remembers thinking how someone could ever love a person that much.

Death eats at his skin, every morning, every night. There was no reprieve, no moment of solace, no moment of silence or a breath of relief. Just a constant itch, lingering on his skin with a constant ache that still hasn’t left. He thought it never would. 

The Nights Watch was dissolved, it wasn’t needed with Jon around and men were given the option to leave or stay - chart the lands Beyond the Wall. Satin Flowers left, and joined Winterfell as its steward. 

And Jon realised just what it was that kept him human.

He watches, he listens and waits. He thinks before he speaks, and he fights against the ice in his mind. He observes, and he feels the magic of his little sister grow stronger and stronger whenever she enters the smithy. He feels the air grow charged and heavy - a storm coming in, filled with promise. 

Oaths and promises. Pacts once forgotten now fulfilled. Death eats at his skin, but he leans into Satins with a desperate love, and he watches his sister do the same, Gendrys name on her tongue.

_(Promise me, Ned.)_

iii 

Winterfell is Rickons home.

He knows that, now, feels it too. Once, he couldn’t even remember what it looked like, struggled with remembering the home of his childhood; flashes of fire, pools of blood staining snow, the cold of the tunnels. Rickon finds himself wondering, though, if Winterfell truly is his home, or if it’s the people within its walls.

Bran, he could remember; his elder brother clutching onto his hands, making him promise to be safe, their same blue eyes meeting. Rickon told him he would stay safe, if only Bran returned to him once again. Snow flurried around them, the whine of their direwolves echoing throughout the caves. 

And he remembers seeing Jon again, reluctant to believe it was him. He can hear himself calling his brother _father,_ a question in his tone, ghosts behind his eyes - Jons magic brushed against his, a soft sorrow in his _no, Rick, it's Jon, your brother._ Rickon collapsed into his brothers arms, Ghost nudging against Shaggy and - 

Yes, this was home. 

They took back Winterfell, ripping the Boltons from their beds. Rickon met Arya again, and his pack began to heal. 

Arya felt familiar in the way that Jon did, and Rickon wondered if it was the Stark look; his fathers grey eyes a foggy memory. Or, he mused, if it was their magic that felt familiar, a brush against his senses, deliberate and filled with love. Shaggy found Nymeria, and Arya did not let Rickon go, her arms wrapped around his neck and whispering _thank you, brother, thank you._

And with meeting Arya again, brought Gendry.

Rickon adored Gendry.

He made weapons, arming their pack, protection etched into the metal. And Rickon saw how he acted with his sister, and it brought back memories of red hair so similar to his own, and steel eyes softening when it came into view. He felt Aryas magic thrumming in the air, light and passionate and - 

Happy, Aryas magic felt happy.

Sansa arrived not soon after, but she did not feel familiar in that way. When Rickon reached out, nothing replied - no passion like Arya, no protectiveness like Jon, no homelyness like Bran - and all he was left with an overwhelming sense of loneliness. Empty and hollow. 

Gendry had magic, though Rickon was unsure if anyone else was aware. When he reached out, he felt a shock, almost like the aftershocks of lightning hanging in the air. Gendry felt safe, and Rickon was the feral, wild-wolf of Winterfell but he craved safety for his family. Arya smoothed his hair when he told her this, and told him that Gendry would protect them, and they would protect him.

_(Pack, she had whispered. Pack isn’t just wolves, pup, pack is those who you love, those who you need to keep safe._

_Pack is family, and family is whoever you need it to be.)_

Rickon liked the forge, because it was where he could find Arya. He remembers one day, when she sat on the anvil, and Gendry scowled at her to get off. But Rickon knows them, and he knows that their push and pull is what makes them work, feels their magic dancing together. Rickons mingled with it, and Arya pulled him in with a smile, Gendry showing him his latest project.

Sometimes, it felt as if they were his parents - and then the red hair and grey eyes would flash before his mind, and Oshas face would smile back at him but her voice would sound out -

_Anyone can be your family, little lord, you can have more than one._

Arya smoothed back his hair, telling him that it was worse than Shaggy. Gendry laughed, and told her that she had twigs in her hair and Rickon laughed too, because there were. Then Jon came into the smithy, his magic the strongest in the room, but there was a smile on his face as Satin wheeled Bran with them.

Sansa called from the balcony that dinner was ready and Arya held him back before he ran, licking her thumb and wiping soot from his cheek as he squirmed. Her magic reached out as she did so, and it felt warm and loving and happy and like - 

Like a mothers would.

Arya was his sister, but she loved him like a son. And Gendry was his sisters husband, his goodbrother but he loved him like a son. And Jon wasn’t quite human anymore, but Rickon would kill anyone who dared say anything about it because he was his family. And Bran, and Satin and Sansa too.

_Pack is family, and family is whoever you need it to be._

Winterfell was Rickons home, his childhood encased in its walls. Memories etched into the stone, bleeding into the snow. There was dust covering the rooms, but his family was persistent. They shook out sheets, and dusted shelves. They hung the direwolf banners, proudly flying in the wind and they killed their enemies, sticking their heads on spikes

The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.

iiii 

Bran sings the songs that last longer than men.

They linger in the trees, the rocks and the rivers. The storms, the grass, the snowy hills he used to sled down when he was a child. The mud, the leaves, the stones he used to climb, the wind that blows through his hair. Bran hears them, the songs of the people that once were there and he learns them with reverence - sometimes, Bran will be in the same place they were, and they will sing in his ear.

Bran knows the songs, has learnt to remember them and sing them, passes them down to his family. His magic sings when he does, and he feels it covering his lungs, infusing itself with the songs of old. 

He had never thought his family would have their own songs.

Jon, the song who had never been sung before. Ice and fire - the only one able to hold both life and death in his body, the song that had been prophesied, the song no one else could sing. Jon, who sings his song with a reluctant pride, Satin gripping onto his hand. 

Though Jons song may be the oldest, and the loudest, it is not the only one.

Arya has her own song, and Bran sings it with pride. The pact of those long ago, their echos sounding out through their ears, the ripples of a stone thrown years past. Arya - with her Northern magic, her Northern blood - and Gendry, her Southern boy. 

_(Bran knows there is more to Gendry than any of them think, the song of gods sing in his blood. First Man, Andal, Southerner regardless. Throw a stone, and the ripples will echo for years to come. Throw stones, and you will hit your target eventually.)_

Bran sings their song, covered in soot and hammered into metal. Gendry quenches the steel in his blood, and it comes out with ripples and waves. Arya watches him with awe, her magic stilling for the first time in her life with pure, unfiltered admiration and Bran watches with her - _Gendry sings the song of steel, she says._

Gendry gives her the waves, and thunder rolls above them. Arya holds it with a delicate hand, tears in her eyes as the steel glints in the moonlight. She throws her arms around him, and kisses him with a passion that puts her magic to shame. Bran watches it with a smile, and ventures in the snow - lets them be alone.

Theirs is a true song, one the children seem to have written themselves. It is melodious and unmarred - unlike Jons, whose is shrouded in cold.

_(Bran sees the way they look at his brother, the way they eye him with distrust. They call Daenerys Targaryen the saviour of the realm, and they call his brother a monster. His magic boils with anger, knowing Jon is the true saviour - there can be more than one. They call him a demon anyway._

_Bran makes sure their songs are never sung.)_

Arya and Gendry move with a harmony written into their souls. Their song is their own - not Roberts and Lyannas, nor is it Sansas and Joffrey. Strife is written, separation sung but they come together and their magic sings with fervour. Jon tells him Aryas magic feels like passion whenever she uses it, and Bran knows it to be true. 

Their song is passion in its pure form, and Bran will sing it with a yell. 

Ripples and waves; throw a stone and it may come back to you. 

Bran wonders what their family would think of them now; Sansa, gone from her prison but not free of her chains. Rickon, more wolf than boy who cannot remember their faces. Jon, alive and dead, his skin cold to touch. Arya, whose magic runs free with soot on its trail.

Bran, who sings the songs of the past.

Songs last longer than men. 

_(But, Bran wonders, who will sing the songs when men are gone? Jon, imprisoned in his shell of ice, but one day his fire will break free. Rickon will grow old and Shaggy will get grey in his fur. Sansas hair will go from the colour of weirwood leaves to the snow on the ground. Arya will pass in her husbands arms, a smile on her face._

_Who will sing their songs when they are gone? He supposes that is why people have children, to keep their songs singing. Bran knows them all, no matter the person. But one day, all men will be gone and surely the songs will be gone with them._

_Yet, he hears his sisters song in the clang of metal, the steady stream of the river. He hears his sisters song in the roll of thunder and the striking of lightning. In the crunch of snow, and the thunk of an arrow. His sisters song is intertwined in nature, in the roots of the weirwood and the fall of its leaves._

_Songs last longer than men, but his sisters song is sung in the wind.)_

**Author's Note:**

> the way i cannot help myself  
> and i hope ive balanced the arya/gendry musings with the rest, hopefully !!  
> (also i wonder if u can tell who my fave stark is from this lmao)  
> i wrote this on my day off !! and i actually really like it, so yeah, i thought i may as well just post it  
> anyways, thank you all for reading n please comment n lmk what u think !! <3


End file.
